


Who does not move forward, recedes

by clicktrack_heart



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Murder Family 2.0, Nice Hannibal, Post-Episode: s02e13 Mizumono, Post-Season/Series 02 AU, Scar Worship, Second Chances, ghosting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 08:38:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6367192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clicktrack_heart/pseuds/clicktrack_heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal’s path post S2 changes quickly when he realizes he might actually want a do over. Save a girl, open a veterinary office in Sugarloaf. If at first you don’t succeed, try again, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Thank yous and hearts to [LoneWombatKing](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lonewombatking/pseuds/lonewombatking) and [FerventRabbit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ferventrabbit/pseuds/ferventrabbit) for editing.

__

_The small cry barely draws his attention. Years ago, months ago even, he would have paid it no mind._

_Yet._

_Hannibal allows his finely-tuned senses to focus. He follows the faint sobs with a slight tilt of his head, as if he were catching a rapidly fading scent. Abruptly, he turns, makes a left into the alley behind him._

_There’s more trash than anything but he moves with ease in the shadows, eyes sweeping over large dumpsters, piles of filthy magazines and tattered rags. Under a layer of cardboard, a small form shudders. He can hear the ragged breaths it draws._

_His lip curls. A dog perhaps, or some other unfortunate creature._

_Still, his plans are unformed when he gingerly peels the wet cardboard back. He is really not quite sure why he even does it. Curiosity is a luxury for him, after all._

_A girl, perhaps a young woman, lays below him on the ground. She is dirty, hair curled and matted over her face. Her clothes are in a terrible state of disarray, leaving her mostly nude. Hannibal can deduce what has happened to her. Defensive cuts are slashed across her forearms. From one of the slices, a thick inch of skin barely hangs. The worst of her wounds is cupped beneath small red hands. She has been stabbed in the abdomen, several times by the thick, syrupy smell of it. His nostrils flare. He believes her intestines have been perforated._

_Breath still rattles from her broken body and he imagines life blood filling her lungs like a rising red tide. Soon she’ll be drowning in it. He glances up, sees the night sky and breathes it in. Wonders again, as he does most nights, about the sky over Will Graham’s head. It’s not his intention of course, but he finds once he thinks of Will, the train of his thoughts is impenetrable. Hannibal didn’t sleep well the night before. How did Will sleep? What dreams twitched his fingers and his mouth?_

_He stares down at the girl again, considering. He muses over finishing the job her attacker started. It would be so easy to take the small knife in his pocket and carve into her. He could improve upon the attacker’s work even, create something better._

_Despite its simplicity and elegance, the idea doesn’t interest _him._ No symphony plays, and the buds of roses he imagines in his mind do not blossom. Frowning, he realizes despite thousands of miles and mutual betrayals between him and Will, he is still very much... not himself. _

_As if sensing an angel or grim reaper, the girl’s eyes flutter, slitting open. He sees the deep blue irises for just a moment._

_He feels himself tremor. Like seeing a beautiful Matisse painting, the vivid, cerulean color of the girl’s eyes is a revelation._

_Hannibal’s path opens up to him, uncoiling like a waking snake or even a thread from the Greek Moirai. In his mind’s eye, he can nearly see the women unspooling the single crimson strand of his life again, filling it with new purpose. This girl’s life will illuminate his way. And they all will be better for it._

_“Fuck you,” she rasps. “Let me die.”_  
   
_He smiles lovingly at her dirty face._

_“I will not,” he says, already thinking of his future. Now becoming theirs.“You will live,” he commands, hands busily removing his wool coat and coordinated scarf._

_Her forehead creases before she falls unconscious._

_Quickly, Hannibal uses his coat to tourniquet the girl’s abdomen. He will have to act fast if she will survive her wounds. As he works to get her stable for transportation, he begins to plan the rest of his visit in Marseille. He can find a two bedroom apartment to rent easily enough. It will suffice for him and the girl while she heals._

_There is just the matter of Bedelia to contend with._


	2. Make a Shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you lovely [LoneWombatKing](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lonewombatking/pseuds/lonewombatking) and [FerventRabbit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ferventrabbit/pseuds/ferventrabbit) for editing!

~*~*~*~

The meds have changed Will’s dreams. He knows he still has them, can still feel their oily slick patina on his skin every morning. Yet he doesn’t remember what ghosts paid him a visit. He doesn’t know if his dream was of Abigail in the stream or of the stag in the woods or of the beast in his bed or of... Hannibal, holding him close in his kitchen before gutting him. The fuzzy and bleak empty space of his dreams haunts him on waking just as much as the last moments he felt the accusing weight of Hannibal's eyes, never totally forgotten, no matter the dose of his anti-depressants.

Without memories of his nightmares or dreams, it is as if he is fading to instability again. Though this type of dissipation is much softer than before, it is no kinder. He doesn’t experience loss of time or hallucinations so much as his mind wanders untethered, sometimes for hours.

Before he goes to work, Will goes on a short jog with Winston and Hilde. His physical therapist had told him months ago he should start ramping up his physical activity again, but it is only recently he has begun to listen. His abdomen is still tight from the ridge of scar tissue slashed across it but it feels good to let his legs roll below him, feel the slight jump and flex of his feet from toe to heel as he circles his quiet neighborhood.

Yet driving to work thirty minutes later, Will feels tired again. It’s Friday, but he doesn’t look forward to the weekend. He is sluggish throughout the day and doesn’t get much done on the old skimmer boat that he’s working on. After a few back and forth text messages, Molly stops by to bring him a tuna sandwich and a bag of chips. She is wearing a pretty blue dress. They sit together outside on the picnic table in front of the shop and she beams at him when he tells her the tuna salad is good.

“Consider it a thank you for last week,” she says. 

His face warms as he remembers the kisses they shared. 

“Don’t thank me,” he murmurs, looking down. 

It’s selfish, but if he’s honest with himself right now what he feels is relief again-- that he was able to hold her and kiss her after their date. The one bright spot of his life at the moment, and he doesn't even feel like himself. A non-Will Graham, a bizarro parody-- one that never agreed to let Jack Crawford’s nightmares into his head, including, of course, Hannibal Lecter. 

He dares a glance at Molly from under his bangs. 

“I hope you aren’t going to wait too long to ask me out again,” she teases.

“It sounds like you have something in mind?” he asks. He takes another bite of his sandwich before he says something stupid. 

“Yeah,” she replies. “That is, if you’re up for it.” Her legs flick back and forth. She pauses before speaking, eyes wide and searching. “Wally is coming back from his grandparents’ and I’d like you to meet him.”

Will swallows a lump of tuna meat. He struggles not to cough. 

“Sorry,” Molly says, wincing at his expression. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have. It’s too soon, isn’t it?”

He shakes his head, clearing his throat. “No, that’s not it. I want to meet your son.”

Molly says nothing, fidgeting with one of the pockets of her dress.

“I want to do it,” Will repeats with more conviction, knowing Molly deserves more. “We could go out on my boat.”

Molly doesn’t look convinced. “You told me you like kids when we met, so I just thought...”

“Molly, I want to meet Walter. No games, right?” He echoes the words he said to her on their first date, a few days after they met.

Slowly her frown fades and she gives the smallest nod. He reaches for her hand, entwining their fingers. 

Her nails are red, the color of arterial blood. His mind wanders. 

~*~*~*~*~

Hilde is sick when Will gets back home.

He notices her immediately, lying pitifully by the door. Her big amber eyes stare trustingly back at him, but she doesn’t move or come to greet him as usual. Something doesn’t smell right either--and Will finds undigested kibbles in a pool of watery vomit in his kitchen. He isn’t mad about the mess, not when Hilde is obviously not feeling well.  

Quickly, Will paces back to his small living room, filled recently and cheaply with secondhand Craigslist furniture. Winston whines from his curled up spot beside the part shepherd, as if pleading with Will to fix their newest family member.

Will grabs his phone and keys from the spot he’d thrown them on the couch. 

“Hang on girl,” he tells Hilde. He bends to pick her up and slowly maneuvers them past his screened door to the hot, humid Florida heat. With one hand, he opens the backseat of his car and gets Hilde comfortable with the dog blanket he has always had in the back, one of the few possessions he has kept.

He starts to drive, already knowing his destination. There’s a new vet office at a strip mall not too far away. Will hasn’t been to this vet office before-- it had just opened after a flurry of construction activity last month, the corner shop having occupied a small nail salon before. It’s only a few miles away from his place and he decides it’s easier than the longer drive to his usual veterinarian in Big Pine Key.

Inside the office, an older woman is arranging to board her cat. The much younger woman behind the desk notices him and Hilde instantly. 

“Hello, just one moment,” she says, addressing Will and Hilde in a polite, practiced way. Her accent is French. Unusual for this part of Florida.

Will nods, setting Hilde onto the small love seat across the front desk. He frowns at the upholstery, thinking it looks a little too refined for a veterinary office. He hopes Hilde doesn’t get sick on it.

For the next minute, the woman behind the desk quickly and efficiently arranges paperwork, simultaneously answering questions about the feeding schedule for boarded animals. 

Once the veterinary assistant has the cat, the older woman leaves. Will waits as she leaves the reception room with the car in the carrier. He scans two pages of “Town & Country” magazine with one eye on his sleeping dog until she returns.

“Are you the doctor?” he asks because he doesn’t want to keep assuming she’s an assistant and make an ass out of himself.

She smiles brightly at him as if he has made her day. “I’m Sophie. I’m just the assistant,” she confirms. “And who do we have here?”

“Hilde,” Will answers. “She barely ate any of her food and when I came home she had thrown up what little breakfast she had.”

The young woman makes some notes on a clipboard. She asks for Hilde’s age and weight. “And your name?” she asks, after a pause.

“Will Graham.”

He watches as she fills in his name neatly, in careful and elegant script.

“Mr. Graham, we will get the rest of your details after your appointment. I do not want to keep Hilde waiting on an upset stomach.”

Will is surprised to see the red tape cut through so quickly but nods, grateful. “Thank you.”

Sophie beckons him to follow her to a treatment room down the hallway behind the reception desk. When Hilde gets up to follow him, Will’s anxiety eases a notch.

The examination room she shows them is small and bright. There are even fresh flowers on the counter, simple but pretty Black-Eyed Susans. For Will, they’re instantly recognizable and not in a good way. He had some Black-Eyed Susans growing wild in the fields by his home in Wolf Trap. Just another reminder of what has been lost.

“Dr. Fell will be with you in a moment,” Sophie tells him before shutting the door behind her. 

Will barely has to wait at all. He’s rubbing the tan fur on Hilde’s belly when the door opens. 

The doctor walks in wearing a white coat, carrying the same black clipboard that Sophie used earlier for notes.

Will strokes Hilde’s fur once more before truly seeing the doctor, before seeing _Hannibal_. 

Then there is no looking away. The other man’s hair has grown longer than Will has ever seen it, an inch or two below his collar. The warm tone of his skin has darkened by several shades, unmistakably golden hued from the rays of Florida sun. Baldly, Hannibal returns his stare, the smallest smile curving his cheekbones.

“Will.”

Will’s heart leaps and with a gasp for air, he jolts upwards to his feet. 

Distantly, he hears glass shatter and feels a pang in his elbow before he realizes he has knocked both a jar of Milk Bones as well as the vase of the Black-Eyed Susans off the counter. From the examination table, Hilde gives a startled woof as glass, flowers, and treats scatter across the tiled flooring. His heart pounding, Will’s eyes dart from wall to confining wall. Quick as he can, he shifts offensively, putting himself between Hannibal and his dog. 

Still as a statue, Hannibal stands firmly behind the closed door of the examination room, his smile faltering only slightly at the display Will makes.

“You,” Will breathes. “It’s you.” His stomach knots and he resists the urge to clutch the scar tissue that lines it. “Come to finish what you started?”

Hannibal’s lips part to speak but the door cracks open behind him. His young assistant pokes her head in. “Pardon?”

Will sees her, truly sees her. The refined and classical clothing that fits her so well, the effortless way she knew how to set him at ease, not forcing his patience or even eye contact, everything forms one precise picture-- an image that Hannibal himself has constructed

How could he have been so blind? How could he have missed it? Those sun-kissed cheeks, not wind-chapped, but pink and youthful all the same—eyes a startling blue. The soft smile of someone whose life hasn’t been as good as it should be, as it _deserves_ to be. There’s so much of her that is like Abigail but enough of her is different too—the cool confidence, the cultured demeanor. It’s unmistakable now. Hannibal has taken a daughter again. Only this one is more like him. How much like him? Will isn’t sure he wants to know. 

_The fucking Black-Eyed Susans. God damn it._

“Excuse me, Dr. Fell? Mr. Graham?” Sophie asks. “Everything OK? I heard a crash.”

Will’s chest rises and falls rapidly as he looks from Sophie to Hannibal. 

Hannibal says nothing and Will realizes that he’s waiting to see what Will will do, as always. But he does not observe Will in the same fondly curious manner that Will remembers. Hannibal’s face is marked by tension and obvious concern. The clarity comes, harsher than a winter at sea. Hannibal is waiting to see if Will runs or fights. 

Stomach clenching, Will chooses neither. He shakes his head, not trusting himself to speak. 

Hannibal pauses before his lips purse thoughtfully. “Sophie?”

“Oui?”

“There has been a small accident. Please retrieve the broom.”

As if Hannibal had snapped his fingers, Sophie is gone.

Alone again, Will feels Hannibal stare at him for a long moment. Will doesn’t look at him again, doesn’t trust himself to move. He might not stop until his fingers are clenching tight around Hannibal's throat. The thought spins in his mind like a merry-go-round. 

After all this time, Hannibal’s voice is a quiet and familiar interruption to the chaos of his thoughts.

“Will, please take a seat. Your knees are locked and I fear you will lose consciousness and hurt yourself.”

He can’t help but snort at the doctor’s concern even as he struggles to control his breathing. Still, fainting around Hannibal is never a good idea, so he reluctantly obeys, taking the time to scowl at Hannibal as he does.

Sophie returns. The blonde waves of her hair obscure her face as she quickly shifts the glass, Black-Eyed Susans, and dog treats to a dust pan before dumping it all in a small trash bin. Then she wipes down the pool of water with a few paper towels. Dutifully, she looks at Hannibal for her next instructions.

“Thank you, Sophie,” Hannibal says kindly. “It would be beneficial for you to observe this appointment with Will Graham, if there’s no one waiting at the front desk,” he tells her. 

“Of course,” Sophie says, looking kindly at Will. “The office is empty for now, just us three.”

Will exhales. Inhales. Tries to do it as slowly as possible.

Sophie focuses on him, narrowing her eyes. “Mr. Graham, you have nothing to worry about. We are new in town but Dr. Fell is the best,” she says. He can sense for himself just how true her belief in her own words are. It makes Will feel so sick he can’t even speak as she sits on the stool next to Hannibal.

After a pause, which seems more for Will’s benefit than to calm Hilde, Hannibal approaches the dog gently, palms out and fingers spread. The dog is more alert now, her amber eyes fixed on Hannibal.

Will’s not sure what he’s expecting over the next few minutes but it certainly isn’t Hannibal’s extremely gentle and cautious examination of his dog. 

He looks into her eyes, then at the bottom of each paw. Will’s fists stay squeezed tight to keep from making any sudden movements. He feels the weight of Sophie’s gaze on him but he doesn’t look back. He flinches when Hannibal reaches into his lab coat, relaxing only incrementally when Hannibal displays an oral thermometer. If Sophie notices the tension she is polite enough to say nothing.

One at a time, Hannibal looks into Hilde’s fluffy, pointed ears, making her paws twitch as she licks at her muzzle nervously. As he takes her temperature, Hannibal rubs her belly gently the way Will had, instantly calming her.

Will’s nails cut sharply into his palms, small pinpricks he barely feels.

Hannibal reads Hilde’s temperature. “It is what I thought,” Hannibal says, setting the thermometer back on the counter and tilting Hilde’s head back to look at each eye. “She has a mild fever, and along with the other symptoms you described, it is highly suggestive of a bacterial infection. She will need antibiotics.” 

Will stares at him in disbelief but Hannibal’s attention has already flicked away. 

“Sophie, will you please get Mr. Graham a few sample packets of amoxicillin?”

Sophie nods. “I will have it at the front desk for you.”

“Thank you.” It’s all he can manage as Hannibal’s new daughter leaves the room, shutting the door again behind her. 

Hannibal is still too close, one hand spread in Hilde’s thick fur. For a long moment, neither of them can seem to speak. Will still feels as if he is struggling to keep his head above water, and beneath the churning sea is something far more frightening.

“I will take care of Hilde, Will. You should not be alarmed.”

Will frowns, glancing at Hannibal against his better judgment. 

“I know.” 

Hannibal's eyes do not leave Will's face. “I feel fortunate to hear those words.”

Will looks away, swallowing thickly. He rubs at his jaw, giving his fingers a break from their rigid hold into his life line. “Why are you here?”

“I was not equipped as I thought I would be to lose you.”

“Losing me... hurt you.” It’s a statement, not a question. 

“Yes.”

“Good,” Will says vehemently. Hannibal flinches. Licking his lips, Will breathes deeply again. More words rush out of him, faster than his own thoughts, filling the space of silence in the small room. “That’s good. You killed Abigail. You left me in the hospital for days.”

“You left me as a blasted tree, Will. Your bolt entered my soul.”

“I don’t want to hear your _poetry_ , Dr. Lecter, or Dr. Fell, or whatever you’re calling yourself these days.” 

The strong line of Hannibal’s shoulders sink, ever so slightly. There’s hurt in his eyes, in the fine creases around them. 

Will takes another deep breath and releases it. It’s hard to know what is an act what isn’t. If Hannibal wanted to kill him, he would have already done so. Will can’t make sense of this, what Hannibal being here means. Hannibal’s design is tied up in confusing and intricate actions. Black-Eyed Susans. Sophie. The veterinarian office. 

“So you’re a vet now?” The words come out snappier than he intends. 

“Yes,” Hannibal says simply. “I enjoy the work. Animals are more than adequate patients. They ask no pointless questions and pass no uninformed criticisms.”

“I didn’t realize you studied veterinary medicine at John Hopkins,” Will mutters. 

Hannibal’s lips quirk. Just like that, whatever pain Will saw in Hannibal’s face is masked again.

“You doubt my qualifications?” Hannibal asks.

“Just seems a little... beneath you.”

“On the contrary, Will. Animals ask for so little and yet give so much in return. I could hardly think of a more deserving tribute. I have even enjoyed my return to surgical work, as it is required, of course.”

Will snorts. “And the girl you’re working with? Who is she?”

Hannibal smiles lightly. He picks at the sleeves of his doctor’s coat, feigning nonchalance but Will can sense the pleasure he draws from Will’s curiosity. 

“Many things. A lost soul. A drop of water in the desert. I’ve taken her under my wing. She has shown some interest in becoming a doctor.”

“What happened to her? Aside from you,” Will deadpans. 

Hannibal frowns. “She was the victim of a vicious attack. I helped her confront her tormentors.”

“Right, confront,” Will snorts. “So she’s a killer.” He imagines blood splatters on Parisian city streets. He knows he should feel disgusted. He doesn’t. “Why am I not surprised.”

“She’s more than a killer,” Hannibal says sharply. “You and I have killed. Yet we are more than the sum of those parts.”

“So she’s like Abigail?” Will asks. He doesn’t try to disguise the pang he feels whenever he says her name. A stream rises around him, suffocating. He can’t think.

“Yes,” Hannibal says simply. Will watches his throat work. “I didn’t come here to cause you any more grief, Will. I came to make amends.”

Will shakes his head. 

“I can’t do this right now,” Will says. “I need air.”

Hannibal stands immediately. “Of course. I will retrieve Hilde’s medications for you.”

Will leans against the wall for support as Hannibal moves quickly and efficiently. He opens a cabinet above the sink and drops a few non-descript bottles into a paper bag.

“Have her take these vitamins once a day and, as for the ear drops Sophie has at the front desk, apply those twice a day,” Hannibal says, professional and crisp. “Please drive carefully on your way home.”

Will doesn’t have a good response to that. With an arched brow, he stares at Hannibal incredulously one last time before he picks up Hilde’s warm body, bundles her into his arms to go to the small reception area. 

Sophie is waiting for him, medication proffered in another white paper bag. 

Will grabs it, then pauses. “I have to ask. Are you being coerced to be here? Has Hannibal done anything to you?”

She smiles and opens her hand to show him a scalpel. “Hannibal might trust you but that doesn’t mean I have to.”

Will swallows, a loud clicking sound. He nods once and then leaves the office. 

Outside, he gulps air for several moments before his hands steady enough to drive himself the few miles he needs to go to get home. 

For the first time in a long time, he remembers fragments from his dream the night before. All the pieces lay before him, playing in reverse. 

He opens his eyes to Hannibal’s eyes. They are bottomless, an inviting darkness. With a sensuous stroke of his of tongue, the man licks wet blood from his lips. Gently, he lowers Will’s hand from his mouth. Will watches as his skin knits, sealing within it a drop of blood. He feels a scratch across his flesh, sharp, and just as suddenly, gone. From his hand, Hannibal takes the beautiful red rose Will grasps tightly. 

He didn’t even know he was holding it.


	3. In Your Nature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over the next week, Will watches more of Hannibal and Sophie’s activity. It’s much more “My Girl” and less Chesapeake Ripper than Will had ever thought to expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh so much love to [LoneWombatKing](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lonewombatking/pseuds/lonewombatking) and [FerventRabbit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ferventrabbit/pseuds/ferventrabbit) who make time to edit and also create incredible and beautiful stories. 
> 
> Chapter title comes from "In Your Nature" by Zola Jesus- David Lynch remix.

~*~*~*~*~

The next morning, Will wakes with the strangest feeling. It’s though something is out of place or somehow changed. It prickles his skin like a fresh bandage. The lighting in his window seems like it’s a part of another dream-- too sunny and surreal in its brightness.

In his mind, the woods back home beckon, and his stag seems to wait. He hovers on the edges of Will’s mind, yet time remains at a stand still. 

Will gets ready for the day. Odd feelings are old habit as ever. His stomach lurches when he sees the bags of medicine from Hannibal, still perched on the kitchen counter from the night before. 

With a new composure, he examines Hilde’s medicines. He had given Hilde the first dose yesterday without thinking through the mirror-sharp angles of Hannibal’s intentions. He had felt _something_ \- that Hannibal wasn’t going to cause Hilde harm - but it doesn’t make him any less angry at himself now for actually listening to him. Yet Hilde looks fine, better than yesterday, if he’s honest with himself.

Frowning, he pulls up a kitchen stool and stares at each bottle, front and back, from top to bottom. He Googles the name of the prescription and vitamins before finally giving Hilde the ear drops again. 

He looks at Hannibal’s cream-colored business card, tucked discreetly into the bag with Hilde’s medication. Dr. Roman Fell. Veterinary Specialist and MD. Will snorts and his stomach growls. For a moment, he thinks of the meals Hannibal used to make for him—the silky chicken soup, the roasted veal and succulent pork. Of course that had only been subterfuge, cloak and daggers for Hannibal’s true intentions. His true self. 

Will feels the scar low on his belly lighting up like a brand as he makes his way to the liquor cabinet. He might need food, but he wants a drink. 

He pours himself a generous glass of whiskey. It’s Saturday, so _fuck it,_ he thinks. Next, he opens the canister of dog treats and lets the dogs nibble them from his fingers. 

“One for you, one for me,” he tells Hilde and Winston as he gulps down nearly a shot worth of the woody liquid in his coffee mug.

~*~*~*~

Rinse, repeat.

Whiskey singes and numbs his insides like the squeeze of a hand. He’s aware of dog tongues lapping at socks and on unsteady feet he lurches up from his couch, letting the dogs out before coming back inside and heading to his bed room to land face down on his bed.

Hannibal is in his head. He is waiting for Will, sitting at the front of a beautiful table. It’s not Hannibal’s ornate table in Baltimore, the grand theater, Leda and the swan looming over it. This dream-world table is rustic, made of white oak. 

The dishes lining the table’s surface look so delicious.

~*~*~*~

Will oversleeps the brunch he was supposed to have with Molly on Sunday. He wakes with his heart beating too fast and groans when he sees the time. He sends Molly a quick and apologetic text.

Molly still shows up at his place about an hour after they were supposed to meet. Will is in his kitchen, struggling to get down a rather weak cup of coffee. The dark heart of him wants to feel her disgust, thick and cloying enough to match the oil slick sensation of his self loathing. But Molly only has concern when she realizes Will’s not sick, just hung over.

“Will?” she asks, doe brown eyes widening in disbelief. “You were drinking last night.” 

“Technically, this morning too,” he says. He shrugs into a fleece pullover hanging over one of his bar stools, unable to maintain eye contact. “I’m sorry,” he offers. It’s weaker than the coffee. 

Molly’s forehead creases as she studies him, a small frown playing on her lips. “You’re not feeling well,” she says. “What happened? Talk to me.” 

His chuckle is bitter. “There’s nothing to say that explains it, trust me.” 

“I do Will. I trust you.”

“I’m not good for you,” he says, looking up from his hands. His words barely move his lips. 

Molly shakes her head, and her concern still presses on him like suffocating walls. “You are. You are a good man and you’re _obviously_ not feeling well.”

He breathes.

“Maybe you’re right,” he says. “Maybe we should talk later.”

~*~*~*~*

Thanks to Hannibal’s medication, Hilde turns the corner from her infection, returning to her normal, hungry self. She and Winston jostle equally for Will’s attention.

Will credits them for his sanity over the coming days. He manages a few back and forth texts to Molly but they don’t make any concrete plans. His choice, which she respects, more proof of what he doesn’t deserve. 

Still, he starts to feel _better_ despite the knee jerk reaction of his own anger towards himself, the feeling of an infected wound finally drained. It’s pitiful. He shouldn’t feel happy that Hannibal is back in his life again. He should be vengeful and furious, should want to kill him or at the very least want him languishing forever in a jail cell in Baltimore, picked apart by hungry vultures like Jack and Chilton. 

Hannibal has ruined things for him, again, without even trying. He disturbed the sand castle Will had built like a mercurial wind. 

Things aren’t the same now that he knows Hannibal is spending his time working only a few miles from his home. He’s still divided about what it actually means. He calls in sick for the first time to his diesel mechanic gig on Monday but he doesn’t spend the day wallowing.

He’s not up for running, but he takes a long walk with the dogs, feeling the warm buttery sun on his arms and head.

On Tuesday, he calls in sick again. Says he thinks he has gotten the flu to give himself more time. 

This is the day he starts following Hannibal. 

Will doesn’t make a conscious effort, it just happens, like the old days of sleep walking and time lost, fever dreams and misshapen hands of the clock. Will follows Hannibal from work to a gourmet sandwich shop and back to work. Behind both glass and distance, he scowls at the man, seeing how he is different but still the same. The longer hair and olive-hued skin make him seem softer, more carefree, but he still has the eyes of a shark.

Will watches as “Dr. Fell’s” patients go in and out throughout the day. At the end of their office hours, Sophie leaves work with Hannibal.

Their home is a beautiful Spanish style rental in a small, extremely quiet and wealthy subdivision called Villa Gardens. Will thinks about breaking into their home when they’re at work but decides against it. He’s not sure what he will find or that he would even do anything about it, one way or another. It would also be _unfortunate_ to get caught and draw Jack’s attention. 

Over the week, he watches more of Hannibal and Sophie’s activity. It’s much more “My Girl” and less Chesapeake Ripper than Will had ever thought to expect. Certainly there’s nothing that Sophie and Hannibal do that’s worth calling Jack over, even if there was a true temptation. 

On Wednesday evening, Hannibal and Sophie go to the outdoor farmer’s market in the center of town. She fills her brown canvas bag with oranges, mushrooms, and strawberries. Hannibal lingers over the cheeses and flowers. He sniffs at a variety of them, strange, beautiful and exotic blooms. Will remembers the display of Black-Eyed Susans in his office and isn’t surprised with Hannibal’s choice in the end--a bouquet of wild flowers. The blossoms are small, _modest offerings,_ Will thinks. 

A strange longing fills him as he watches Sophie and Hannibal. Maybe it’s because the quaint and happy image they create could have been him, with Abigail, or the child that never was with Margot, if Hannibal hadn’t snuffed them as easily as he would’ve done to a candle. 

Will frowns. It’s not entirely right, his thought. With Abigail there had been pain, it had meant something. It could’ve been different. 

He watches, waiting. 

Hannibal acts like he really is Sophie’s father. He’s prim and proper--fatherly and affectionate. Neither Sophie or Hannibal drive to his home or Molly’s to see how Will spends his time, or, in Molly’s case, used to spend his time. They prefer the lone upscale grocery store instead of the tourist-focused Kwik-E-Mart that Will frequents for his current staples: frozen hot pockets, cereal and milk. They don’t go to bars that he’s been to, don’t stop by his work. There is no outward display of any interest in him at all. He’s not sure if he should feel relieved or disappointed. 

One day, Hannibal leaves his office at 3 p.m. He goes without Sophie, sits in his Lexus alone. 

Will waits until Hannibal leaves the shopping center parking lot that houses the veterinary office until he follows, mouth set in an expectant grim line. Hannibal drives to the southern edge of Sugarloaf. He goes to his trunk after he parks in front of a small and lonely home at the end of a cul-de-sac. 

Will waits as Hannibal looks both ways before opening the trunk. He expects to see Hannibal pull out plastic wrapping or some other sinister object. Instead, he pulls out a small bag. Will squints at it, making out the details clearly enough. It’s a black medical case. 

Hannibal disappears into the home, leaving Will feeling on edge. Still, he has no choice but to watch. When Hannibal returns to his car about 20 minutes later, Will waits patiently until he drives away. Then, he jogs to the house and knocks on the door.

The gesture is perfunctory. And so, he’s rather flustered when an elderly lady opens the door. In her arms is a small terrier dog with a plastic cone around its neck.

Will makes up a story about mixing up directions to a friend’s and is back in his car as fast as he can possibly get there.

~*~*~*~*~

He continues following Hannibal and Sophie. He can’t stop himself, even if he wanted to.

Basically, Sophie and Hannibal spend a lot of time buying food. He wonders with dry humor and not enough disgust about the human filets they might have stashed away in the freezer, all the poor souls that offended Hannibal, killed over an uncovered cough or cutting in line at the flower stand, just to be the one to purchase the least wilted bouquet first. 

These ideas are entertained more than he would like to admit. 

Will watches as Sophie and Hannibal go to the Farmer’s Market twice in the week following his discovery of Hannibal’s veterinary office. 

After Sophie makes her last purchase (a new satchel of freshly-picked oranges) she returns down the crowded strip to find Hannibal. Will watches as she navigates down the street, past the crowded vendors, the dogs and SUV-style strollers. 

He watches as a strong hand reaches out and grabs her.

Jerking to action, Will unclicks his seatbelt and is out of the car before his thoughts catch up to his actions. As he walks quickly towards them, he sees Sophie exchange a few words with the man, her face neutral while the stranger leers down at her. He looks beyond her but sees no Hannibal. 

Potential paths spread before Will like an unspooling gold thread-- Sophie could lure the stranger into an alley, and he could meet cruel justice for what most cops would barely consider simple assault, all before Will reaches them. 

Will isn’t sure what bothers him more, the severity of the punishment or that Sophie would dirty her hands on someone _unworthy_. 

The stranger is someone Will could take care of, so easily. Just follow him home and quietly assure he never grabs a girl like he has an implicit right to her body again. Make a message out of him. Elevate him to an art. 

_Because doing bad things to bad people feels good._

Will is crossing the street when he watches Sophie pull out her phone and _take the creep’s number_.

It’s like a sudden stop of a roller coaster, all gears grinding to a screeching, screaming halt, and he feels too much at once. Anger that he couldn’t do what he wanted to do, just like the moment Hannibal stopped him from killing Peter Bernadone’s sadistic caseworker. And also somehow beneath that virulence, there are other undercurrents, impatience and curiosity and satisfaction, all swirling around in his head. 

Dimmed with others’ emotions, Will returns to his car. He sits there for a long moment, trying to hush the rising tide of questions in his mind.

Eventually he makes it home. 

His fridge his empty so he drinks a glass of water before finding an old packet of oatmeal and heating it up in his battered microwave. Being near his dogs helps him refocus, the chaos of his mind fading again to a low background hum.

Hilde’s infection is gone. He never sent a Hannibal a “thank you” card for it either. He hopes Dr. Fell isn’t waiting for one.

Will’s text messages with Molly have lulled several days now, and he can’t see her disappointment but he can feel it. 

_I miss you_. He reads her message while walking the dogs in the warm twilight. 

_So do I._ He wants to reply but he’s not sure what he actually misses.

And there’s still the message to consider. Most people would’ve had to overcome pride to send a message like that, but not Molly. There would be pain of course, hurt that Will wasn’t honest. 

He would rather have her be hurt now than worse later. Women who enter into the eye of Hannibal’s storm never come out the way they should. No women, except maybe, Sophie. His sister Mischa too, maybe. Hannibal hadn’t hurt her, Will thinks.

He pauses, peering through cypress domes as the dogs sniff at the scents of the creeping salt marsh around his home. 

When Hannibal had mentioned his sister before, there had been no intention behind it, no motivation that Will could unearth, then or now. The plans for Margot had already been set in Hannibal’s mind at that point.

The office had felt so cold that day. Will remembers the halting language of loss, Hannibal almost imperceptibly stumbling over something he hadn’t actually wanted to tell Will. 

They had both _ached_. The memory feels like something captured in a snow globe, whimsical and fragile in its hindsight. 

When the dogs sleep, Will is back at it again, following Sophie and Hannibal around Sugarloaf Key and Big Pine as they run their errands, their seemingly normal lives. He tells himself he is doing it to better prepare himself for the true moment when he will have to call Jack. 

He is not preparing himself to let it slip away like the sun drifting below a silver stream, he tells himself.

He doesn’t park near Hannibal’s house, not because he’s that afraid of Hannibal noticing him, but merely out of habit. He drives through the neighborhood a few times, passing Hannibal’s house only twice but parking several times at the tops of adjoining streets that give him a vantage point to see the side of the house and car. Around 7 p.m., he catches Hannibal and Sophie loading up the minivan. She has a green backpack and a small suitcase. Hannibal carries a briefcase and a black duffel bag. 

He waits until they’re in the car and driving away before he shifts into gear and begins to follow. 

Traffic is unexpectedly bad. 

Will waffles back and forth between following more aggressively, not sure if he’s ready for Hannibal face to face again. In the end, he loses his nerve and their trail when a school bus full of band kids making faces at him through the windows swerves in front of him. Will slams on the brakes, and suffers silently behind a red light and the bus for several minutes before he is able to pass.

The minivan is gone when he gasses it. 

Will drives around aimlessly, surroundings blurring as if he’s underwater. He’s near the regional airport. Sophie and Hannibal could be going anywhere.

He drives home. Hilde’s tail wags from her spot on the worn couch as the front door slams shut behind him. He pets her, distantly noting how his hands are shaking. He lets the dogs out for a few minutes before he makes it to his bedroom.

He pulls his old and battered suitcase from the closet. It feels as if his brain has disconnected from his body as he starts shoving his socks and briefs in, then several white rolled shirts on top. He can call in some favors with the friends at his job who like him, who feel sorry for him...

Hilde and Winston are by the door watching him, panting and wagging their tails. 

“Damnit,” he says. “Fucking goddamnit.” He sits down on the bed with his head in his hands until Winston comes to his side, poking him with his cold nose. Will sighs, letting his hands dangle, fingers brushing against his dog’s soft fur. 

“Everything is going to be OK.”

He’s not sure who he’s talking to.

~*~*~*~*~

Over the next week, Will finds himself driving past Hannibal’s office on the way home from work. On his first trip, he finds the sign on the door:

_We regret to inform you of an unexpected office closure. Please call Dr. Gonzalez if you have an emergency._

A phone number is written neatly below the note. The pressure of the pen is lighter than the way Hannibal writes, and the words have a more deliberate neatness than even Hannibal concerns himself with.

Sophie wrote the note. 

Will drives to all the places he’s followed Hannibal and Sophie over the past week. 

He drives to each spot in no particular order; the farmer’s market, the library, the upscale grocery store, a local park and the gym. Wherever Sophie and Hannibal went, Will looks, but he doesn’t see them. Truly, he doesn’t expect to. 

Will wonders if Hannibal decided that he was suitably miserable enough in his life in Sugarloaf and not worth torturing or even finishing what he began the night Will betrayed him.

An eye for an eye, as their betrayals always went. A knife in the gut and in the heart. 

Time doesn't slow in anyone's absence and Will tries not to care. But he still keeps driving by Hannibal’s office, hoping to see a light in the dark.


	4. To Begin Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from Ivy's "I Still Want You."
> 
> Thank you to [hotsauce418](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hotsauce418/pseuds/hotsauce418) for initial feedback!

It’s though a tiny part of himself has broken off and crawled away somewhere. Days do not happen, they pass, like tree-muffled rain.

By the time Wednesday evening comes, his thoughts are scattered as stars. Hannibal has always had a way of carving into him, and he’s not sure how he feels knowing the months apart have changed nothing.

A psychiatrist would probably call this “regression” or “backtracking,” but the terms seem too hopeful to Will. Regression implies prior improvement and backtracking implies a path. He has neither.

Once Will’s out of work, he drives home first, to take Hilde and Winston out. Then he’s back in his car again. He drives a few homes away from Hannibal’s and parks on the road, in between two houses at the top of the street. For his lookout this time, he has brought an old flask and he takes one long pull from it. Hannibal’s house is silent as the night. The roaring Will hears comes from deep in his own veins, like the whisper of sea inside a conch shell.

He goes to Hannibal’s porch, liquid courage fortifying his path.  
   
Glancing past glass and venetian blinds, Will sees a living room that belongs inside a magazine. Leather sofas, soft looking shag rugs all in even, creamy tones. Of course, there’s framed artwork on the wall. Nymphs and shepherds, pseudo-Venuses and other mythological staples. Nothing about the living room is ransacked or abandoned, at least to Will’s former cop eyes. The house is neat and tidy, as if waiting for its occupants to return as much as Will is. Some tension leaves him and he wants to laugh. He slides his back down the side of the house, feeling every grain of the roughened stucco until he’s sitting. He pulls his flask out again and drinks again from it. He had come here thinking he would break in, invade Hannibal’s privacy just because he could, just to be an ass. But now, _even now_ , he can’t bring himself to do it.

Will rests his head on the side of the house. It’s not comfortable but he lets his eyes flutter shut. Just a moment, just like this. He feels himself sink willingly into the black.

_Do you believe you can change me, as I have changed you?_

A door slams and he wakes up, panic and the dry taste of alcohol heavy in his mouth. He’s instantly alert. It’s dark now. Two headlights in the driveway come into sharp focus. The first thing he feels is relief. Then, _shit._

In the time it takes him to stand, Sophie is already out of the car. Her blonde hair is pulled into a high ponytail that leaves a few tendrils of curl falling around her face. She’s wearing a large sweatshirt, with big blocky letters reading, _NOMA Art Museum._ Will frowns, watching as she pulls out her suitcase from the trunk as well as several bags that detail a rather expensive and thorough shopping trip.

His suspicions are confirmed when he sees Hannibal slowly rise out of the car and retrieve his own belongings. Hannibal is dressed surprisingly casually in jeans and a blue sweater. He looks good like that, even with a thick, wool scarf nearly obscuring the lower half of his face. Completing the image is a baseball cap pulled low on his head. Will stares, breath catching.

Hannibal, sensing something amiss already, tenses as he and Sophie come up the manicured path to the front door.

“Hello,” Will says. His voice cracks enough to make him flinch. He doesn’t move from his seat by the door.

Hannibal’s face flickers. Will can’t connect it to any feeling or emotion before Hannibal schools himself, features turning as calm as an undisturbed lake.

“Will, what are you doing here?”

“You know.”

Hannibal shakes his head, managing to pull off a veneer of perplexity irritatingly well. “I am afraid I have no idea. Do you need assistance?”

 _I wanted to see you, asshole_ is what Will wants to say.

Instead, he grits out, “I had some questions about Hilde’s treatment.”

Hannibal visibly relaxes, his fingers loosening on the strap of his bag. Sophie still hasn’t shaken her surprise at Will’s presence and she looks from Will to Hannibal, rosebud lips parted. Her ponytail and sudden lapse of composure make her appear years younger.

“Is Hilde not getting better? Would you like a house call?” she asks.

“No, um, that’s OK,” Will says. “I just wanted to make sure that she doesn’t need a refilled prescription.”

It’s a lie. He knows it. Hannibal knows it. Sophie arches a brow, looking very much like a skeptical teen should. Like Abigail. Though they look nothing alike, he’s reminded so strongly of Abigail, he has to tear his eyes away, towards Hannibal.

Hannibal’s graciousness is marred only by the hint of a small, smug smile. “Sophie, would you run in and get my spare prescription pad, please. It’s at my desk.”

After a beat, Sophie obeys, though hesitant. She grabs her backpack and another travel bag before she heads up the walkway, giving Will the side eye.

The door to the house closes behinds Sophie.

Will licks his dry lips. “You know I lied about Hilde needing a prescription. We still have some pills left.”

“There’s a time for everything. Even honesty will come again.”

Will frowns, shaking his head. “Time is never something I’ve been good with. You know that. Dr. Fell. Hannibal. I don’t even know what to call you anymore.”

“Call me whatever you are comfortable with. You always have. I see no reason you should change.”

“Fine,” he replies. He takes a steadying breath. “Hannibal.”

The name slices like a blade. Then he wants to laugh because it’s not like he cursed in church or said the word “Voldemort.” It’s ridiculous.

Yet Hannibal looks away, head dipping to his shoulders before he glances up again. When his eyes capture Will’s, they’re shining. Will feels... warmth of all things.

“Would you like to come over for dinner tonight?” Hannibal asks quietly. “Sophie has plans with her friends. I fear she grew bored on our weekend getaway.”

Will rubs his hands over his tired, dirty face. “You want to have dinner with me,” he repeats, dully.

“If that’s agreeable.”

“Just like old times, huh,” he says with a heavy exhale.

“I don’t want a repeat of last time, Will,” Hannibal says. “Do you?”

Will thinks of Abigail, of the pain he has carried for months, the scar he will always bear. A reminder of what recklessness wrought.

“I don’t need a sacrifice.”

“Then I will see you tonight.”

“Alright,” he agrees.

He doesn’t need a sacrifice but that doesn’t mean Hannibal doesn’t.

What Will wants now is merely an ending.

~*~*~*~*~

He goes home to feed the dogs before returning to Hannibal’s. He takes a quick shower, brushes his teeth. He throws on a pair of jeans and another tee -- wardrobe staples of Florida living. He tops it off with an old ratty sweater. The drive back is almost too quick, entirely unlike the many times he drove to Baltimore to see Hannibal.

Dinner is delicious -- a roast meat with lemons. The skin is crisped perfectly with just the right amount of salt and pepper. Will doesn’t ask about what he eats. He knows better now.

“When will Sophie come home?” he asks, when his plate is mostly empty.

“I suggested it would be wise if she stayed the night at her friend’s,” Hannibal answers. “She was agreeable.”

“I didn’t mean to kick her out of her home.”

“She is slow to resentment, if that’s your concern. Her judgements are not as swift as yours or Abigail’s.”

Will winces.

“I wouldn’t say mine are swift… After everything that has happened, I am still here aren’t I.”

“As am I.” Hannibal bows his head. “I have many regrets when it comes to you, Will. It is -- inconvenient.”

Will sits back in his chair, setting his fork down by his plate.

“Like?”

Hannibal considers this, his eyes drifting to the window. “I never was able to draw a portrait of you. In the months I spent in Europe, I spent many hours composing your likeness from a rich palette of colors, but only in my mind.”

Will laughs unintentionally -- a short, surprised sound. “I don’ t know why I am surprised but I am.”

“What surprises you?”

“That you thought of me after you left.” Will swallows. “With Bedelia.”

“From the sidewalks of the moon drenched Seine to the sweet-scented flower beds of the Boboli Gardens, I thought of you.”

“I was probably at the hospital, getting my stomach stitched. Nothing so poetic.”

Hannibal pauses, for what feels like a long moment.

“Sometimes words fail us at the heart of what we are trying to say,” he says. “May I draw you?”

Will blinks. “Tonight?”

“Art is a great palate cleanser.”

Will licks his lips clean of traces of citrus and meat. “Fine.”

Hannibal gathers their empty dishes and leaves them in the kitchen. He motions for Will to follow him upstairs, to his study.

It’s nowhere near the size of his office in Baltimore but quaint enough. A small forest green sofa is on one side of the room, a well appointed desk on the other. The desk is filled with several of Hannibal’s sketches, some of famous buildings in Paris, and others depicting what could be Italy. There are faces too, most are of Sophie, but Will sees one of Abigail, smiling solemnly, and another one of a young girl with short, blonde curls. He doesn’t recognize her, not until his heart lurches.

_Mischa._

He sits heavily on the couch.

Hannibal is watching him, adjusting lamps and windows to create the lighting he wants.

“How do you want me?” Will asks.

He flushes as soon as the words leave his mouth, but it’s too late. Hannibal’s lips twitch as he takes a seat at his desk.

“Please, just make yourself comfortable.”

Will watches as Hannibal’s fingers ghost over his graphite pens, the sharp scalpel he uses to sharpen them. Will finds himself almost comforted by its presence, mesmerized even, at the pointed tip catching the light. How many times has he seen Hannibal playing with a scalpel or some other sharp object at his desk?

Hannibal, noticing his glance, peers at Will with curiosity. He offers the tool to him, handle side pointed towards Will.

Will holds it, feeling its small weight in his palm.

“Shall I make it part of your portrait?”

“How about like this?”

He keeps it pointed at Hannibal.

Hannibal’s nostrils flare. “Yes. Yes, that is suitable, I think...”

Will has to imagine how he looks, slumped against Hannibal’s velvet couch, sharp scalpel in hand. Then Hannibal begins to draw him, and Will allows his thoughts to unform, to drift away like ripples in the ocean as he observes Hannibal’s precise movements, his eyes fluttering up and down, lingering here and there.

“Did you think about drawing me when I was your patient?” Will asks, after a few minutes of watching Hannibal.

Hannibal smiles wirily, graphite pencil pausing on paper. “Yes. Many times. I tried as well but my attempts never did you justice.”

After a moment, Hannibal sighs, dropping his pencil.

“You're finished?” Will asks.

“Almost.”

“Can I see?”

“Soon.”

Hannibal flexes his hand then returns to his work. Will holds still as he can. Hannibal spends another forty minutes drawing before he sets his pencil down again. Will’s arm is falling asleep when Hannibal speaks.

“Would you like to see now?” he asks.

“Yes,” Will answers. He lowers his hand, the scalpel loose in his grip, already forgotten as Hannibal rises from his desk and walks to him.

For a moment, all they can do is look at each other. Then his eyes drop to the vanilla paper, to see the image that came from Hannibal’s hand and mind.

It’s him, depicted in clean gray lines, eyes wide but curious. His body appears lithe, the splay of his legs somehow inviting, even as he holds a scalpel as if he means to wound. His lip is curled in a way that is both sensual and dangerous. The artist drew every line as if he loved them.

Will feels heat from his chest to his scars to his toes.

“Wow,” he breathes. “I -- didn’t…”

Hannibal shocks him by dropping to his knees. He takes Will's hand as though it's a wounded bird, kissing each finger wrapped around the scalpel.

 _Oh_.

“Is that what you want? Why you came here? To seduce me?” He touches Hannibal’s head as his kisses wander to his wrist. He wants to laugh as soon as the ridiculous words tumble from his mouth but Hannibal remains focused.

“Why are you doing this? Why are you here?” His voice cracks. “Don’t lie to me.”

Hannibal visibly softens as he looks at Will. He pushes his palm against the scalpel Will holds until blood wells on his palm, like a crucification.

“I decided you and I deserve more than what was originally dealt.”

“What you originally dealt,” Will can’t stop himself from adding. “You know, I understood the violence, every moment of it. Why you gutted me. There was something...” Will swallows. “Loving about it. I didn’t understand why you left me.”

“You were more right than I cared to admit -- you did change me. I didn’t allow myself to think--how light dies when you suffocate it.”

“But you can’t change the stars,” Will says.

“I believe some of our stars will always be the same.”

“Yes. Another time, another place, maybe we would have been, different. Maybe we could have given Abigail a better world,” Will says, removing his hand from Hannibal’s. He abandons the scalpel on a couch cushion. “If I told you to leave now, would you?”

“Yes,” Hannibal says. “Though I would be content to find a space where you could always find me, I fear what that would do to Sophie.”

“You fear for Sophie,” Will repeats.

“Yes,” Hannibal says cautiously. “I have made a promise and I will keep it. You and I can live without each other if the past cannot be overcome. But would the years pass slowly, knowing the happiness we forsake twice? I ask because I worry about you, Will. What will this life be like for you? I care about your happiness more than my own. I- I love you.”

For a moment, Will thinks his head will float from his bones. Hannibal’s eyes are rapt and shining on his face and he shudders.

“N-no,” he breathes. “Don’t....” His fingers clutch at Hannibal’s arms for balance, bringing them even closer. “Don’t say that to me.”

“What do you want me to say then? I will say it,” Hannibal says quietly, dangerously, tilting his head up. Will feels his mouth hovering so warm below his and he vibrates from the shock of it, the pleasure.

“Please, Will,” Hannibal says and Will makes a sound, half sob, half laugh.

“Just, kiss me.”

Hannibal widens his eyes and then long fingers cup his face, brushing against his ears almost delicately. Will manages a shaky exhale before their lips meet.

They breathe for a moment for each other, lips pressed tight. And when Will’s tongue traces against Hannibal’s, tentatively exploring, there’s a muffled moan and Hannibal pushes him up hard against the couch. Will feels Hannibal’s hips pining him. Feels his hands mapping his body like a country he plans to know very intimately.

“God, yes,” he murmurs, breaking the kiss and thrusting his groin forward. Feeling him, Hannibal groans, teeth stuttering against his throat.

Will pulls Hannibal’s hair roughly as the other man’s hand tugs up his shirt. Clothes are removed, lips meeting between gasps for air and whimpered pleas.

Hannibal’s deft hands only pause at the feel of Will’s belly, the thick scar against his fingertips.

“Will,” he moans, rubbing his cheek against it like a great cat, marking it. It’s the simplest touch but it doesn’t stop Will’s dick from responding, straining against the fly of his pants.  Then Hannibal’s _sucking_ , the sensitized skin of his scar burning hot against his tongue. With each tug of Hannibal’s mouth, Will wonders if he will come apart-- only it doesn't feel invasive, it is as though Hannibal is holding him together.

Will can’t think, he can barely watch. “Please,” he says, clutching at Hannibal’s hair. “Please.”

Hannibal pulls away, staring at Will with his sea dark eyes.

“I am going to take you to my bed,” he says. “Any objections?”

“I haven’t -- I wouldn't know what I'm doing. I haven’t done that. With a man.”

Hannibal breathes, turning his face again to Will’s palm, his breath caressing warm against Will's knuckles. “I would show you, if you want me to.”

A snide remark curls on Will's tongue but he chokes it down.

He takes a shuddering breath instead,  before his hand slides to Hannibal's jaw, tilting his head up by his chin. They kiss again, long and sweet.

“OK,” he says. “Show me.”

Hannibal sits back on his heels, still holding Will's hand. He stands smoothly and tugs Will to his feet. In this strange dance, he guides Will to his bedroom.

It ends with them kissing again, before Will can even look around the opulence of the room, of Hannibal’s transformed life. He catches sight of blue sheets, a painting of boats in a harbor, and then Hannibal's mouth presses to his again, firmer and seeking.

He's expecting a crisis of a sort, having a man's hands under his clothes. It doesn’t arrive. Hannibal's hands are larger than his, smoother as well. It feels good. Will moans softly, helping Hannibal rid him of his clothes and layers.

Hannibal folds over his legs, mouthing again at his scar. Will’s toes curl. His boxers end up around his ankles and then Hannibal is kissing his inner thighs, the knobs of his hips, sucking at each inch of sensitive skin he finds until Will is keening.

“Beautiful,” Hannibal says, right as he wraps his hand around Will’s cock. He presses his lips against the head, licking up the bead of precome almost hungrily.

It happens so suddenly, there’s no time to muffle his voice. Hannibal’s tongue dips over his shaft, stroking and searching and something comes undone. Like a rope fraying,  or a lock shattered.  He gasps helplessly, digging his fingers into Hannibal’s bare shoulders, pulsing hot over his chin and lips.

It takes a moment to return to the room, to Hannibal licking at his slick lips and fingers.

“Jesus,” he says, laughing a little. He throws an arm over his eyes. “Sorry,” he says.

“There is nothing to apologize for.”

Hannibal moves beside him, scenting the damp skin at the nape of his neck. He’s sweaty too, warm and large beside Will.  He waits for Hannibal to turn him over but he doesn’t.

When Will finally shifts, Hannibal smiles gently. Will can’t get over how different he looks, the longer hair and tanned skin, the nearly stubbled jaw.

“You have changed,” Will says but he’s studying Hannibal further,  all the captivating details he never saw before -- the strong width of his arms and torso, the muscles of his thighs, his cock still half hard, and then looking isn’t enough.

His fingers stroke against the fine hairs on Hannibal’s chest before drifting lower, over abdominal muscles and the tawny thatch of pubic hair.

Hannibal’s cock stiffens under his fingers almost instantly, his balls drawing up tight. Will fists his length, marveling at how hot and smooth he feels. There’s a strange sense of power coursing through his veins with every touch, every moan Hannibal fights to swallow. It is intoxicating.

“How is this?” he asks Hannibal, his voice roughened. “Do you like it when I touch your cock?”

“Yes,” Hannibal murmurs. “Oh, yes. Please. You’re perfect.”

Will increases his rhythm and leans over Hannibal to kiss him. Their lips and tongues caress, slowly, intimately. Will runs his thumb against the sticky head of Hannibal’s cock just once before Hannibal makes a sound of warning. He squeezes Will’s ass cheek hard as he comes, semen streaking wet across his belly.

“Fuck. Hannibal, that was…”

There aren’t words to describe it. He kisses Hannibal’s gasping, straining mouth before he shakes his head and pulls a fluffy comforter up over them.

They catch their breaths gradually, legs curling loosely together.

Will falls asleep with the steady pulse of Hannibal’s heart in his ear, their fingers tangled.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Morning light wakes him.

He’s not saccharine enough to kiss Hannibal as he sleeps but he gently touches his shoulder before securing the covers more snugly around him.

Will gets up, throws on one of Hannibal’s robes before padding to the the en-suite bathroom. He takes his shower lukewarm, leaving the water gentle enough to massage his aching muscles. Once he finishes, he pulls a towel around his waist and pads back to Hannibal’s room only to find him gone, and the bed remade. Frowning to himself, Will finds a pair of drawstring silk pants and a long-sleeve matching shirt before he ventures downstairs as quietly as he can.

Hannibal and Sophie are in the kitchen, talking in soft, musical French words. Hannibal is wearing pajamas similar to his, dark maroon instead of gray. There’s an open book in front of him. Will can make out an animal diagram on its pages. It’s a veterinary textbook.

"J'ai laissé le chien dans le hangar à bateaux et après je suis allée chez mon ami," Sophie says.

"On n'a pas le droit à l'erreur ici Sophie, tout doit être parfait," Hannibal replies.

"Je peux m'occuper d'une mauvaise bête, je me suis bien occupée du dernier porc non?" 

Will understands every few words, they speak too fast but he understands something about a bad dog. He is wondering if they are talking about euthanizing an animal at their office when Hannibal notices him.

“Will,” he says, eyes lighting up.

Sophie turns from the sink to smile brightly. Will is disarmed by it and his eyes drop to the open newspaper on the island.

_Known Dog Fighter Reported Missing_

“I left my tablet upstairs,” Hannibal says slowly, seeing what has distracted Will. “Please excuse me.”

Will glares at him, and not sure why he even bothers, reads the headline again.

He should have realized it wasn’t sex that made Hannibal sleep like a child. This man’s murder would have been committed just a few hours before Hannibal returned to his house with Sophie. He couldn’t resist a little post-vacation murder after all, could he.

Even with _someone_ helping him, Hannibal would’ve had to work fast. Hence the post-sex exhaustion.

The bastard.

Sophie starts humming, almost too innocently. She starts to put away dishes. “Did you sleep well?” she asks him.

“Yes,” he nods. “I hope you don’t mind me staying the night.”

“No,” she says, thoughtfully. She smiles shyly at him. “If my father is happy, so am I.”

Will watches her, sees how at ease and comfortable she is inside Hannibal's domain. She belongs.

“You love Hannibal.”

“Don’t you?” she teases him with an arched brow, wiping her hands on a clean linen towel. “I could tell the moment I saw your face in the veterinary office last week.”

“Where are your real parents?”

Sophie shrugs, noting his change of subject but moving forward gracefully. “My mother died giving birth to me and my biological father thought it would be too difficult to raise me on his own. He gave me up for adoption. Things didn’t go well with the family that adopted me. I ended up in the streets.”

“I’m sorry.”

“C’est la vie, as they say. The world is full of sad stories, isn’t it.”

“And Hannibal?”

Sophie tilts her chin up, as if daring Will to challenge her. “Hannibal saved me. I think, because you saved him.”

“Qui n’avance pas, recule,” Will recites.

Sophie’s mouth gapes. He almost laughs. “You speak French?” she asks.

“My grand-mere taught me a few words and phrases before she died. I’m not fluent, just -- adequate.”

“Well, your grand-mere was perspicace -- a wise woman,” Sophie says carefully. “I do not want to recede anymore, either.”

She sets a steaming mug of coffee in front of him before he can respond. He watches as the young woman turns, already busying herself at the oven. Breakfast, he supposes. He scents the air. The quiche Sophie is pulling out of the oven is not vegetarian.

“Hannibal is teaching you to _cook_ , isn’t he?”

“Yes, but there is still much to learn,” she says modestly. With a mitted hand, she puts the glass pie pan on a rack to cool.

“I can tell you’re a fast learner,” Will says. He takes a deep breath as he hears Hannibal coming down the stairs. “What about fishing? Do you like to fish?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really know French so if anyone sees anything wrong please let me know.
> 
> Also Will basically ghosted Molly. He sucks.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Send me stuff at [EmCWrites on Tumblr](http://em-c-writes.tumblr.com/).


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